Two Months of Insanity
T
They had never met before that summer, and they spent only two months in each other's company. However, those two months would never be forgotten by Gellert Grindelwald or Albus Dumbledore.
Disclaimer: Not mine, naturally. Owned by J.K. Rowling, though I hope to do them justice.
Author's note: Well, it's happened. Two Months of Insanity is finally being rewritten. I got tons of useful feedback the first time, and I would love to get it again, from the same people or from a whole new group. This chapter has not been beta-read, and there may be some horrible Americanisms in it. If anyone from the UK or with a great understanding of UK grammar, etc. would like to help me by reading over future chapters, please let me know. I would be forever grateful.
The home of Bathilda Bagshot, like all of the homes in Godric's Hollow, was quiet. That was to be expected, as the little neighbourhood was not the sort of environment where anyone expected anything to occur at one in the morning. Bathilda herself was fast asleep in her bed, delighted by dreams of her youth. Many of the dreams, as is the nature of such things, were entirely fictional. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of that very reason, she greatly enjoyed each one.
She did not hear the first set of knocks on her front door. She slept soundly, up a floor, and across the house. A second set followed. Three short, hard raps. She dreamt of a telegraph office she had visited once. A third attempt at knocking was made, even louder. Her sleep was disrupted. She blinked as a fourth set drove away the remnants of sleep. She fumbled for her wand in the darkness and found it as a fifth set, near pounding but not quite there, came.
"Lumos," Bathilda said, yawning as she spoke the incantation. She looked sleepily at the small clock on her night stand by the light of her wand's tip. "Who in Merlin's name," she began but trailed off as she heard a sixth set of knocks. She got to her feet and left her bedroom, lighted wand in hand. She did not think to put her dressing gown over her nightgown. Carefully, she descended the staircase and reached the foot of it before a seventh set issued from beyond the sturdy door. She yawned again, preparing all the things she would say to whomever was rude enough to wake her at this hour. She opened the door.
Somehow, every foul word she had intended to say died on her lips. A young man, who looked rather in need of sleep himself, stood on the porch. He carried his wand, and its tip was lit. His youthful features offered an apologetic smile to the older witch he had disturbed. He was taller than her, though that did not take much, and Bathilda noticed a certain unkempt look to his blond, curly hair. As was fashionable among the young, it was long, the ends touching his shoulders. Even though they begged for sleep, his hazel eyes were alert.
"Bathilda Bagshot?" he asked. His voice was heavily accented but still clear.
Bathilda finally remembered how to speak. "Yes?"
"I am Gellert Grindelwald," the boy said. She knew the name. It was somewhere just out of her mind's reach. His hand went into the pocket of his robes to-- no. He did not wear robes, Bathilda saw. He wore muggle clothing. There was a trunk by his feet too, with a small iron cage on top of it. Inside the cage, a small owl slept. "You said," he was offering her a folded piece of parchment, "I could come here."
She was more awake as she unfolded the letter and read it, recognizing the writing as her own. Grindelwald, yes. Her sister had married a Grindelwald. Gellert, his name was, so this boy was-- her letter confirmed it. Her sister's grandson, her great-nephew. She managed to smile.
"Come in, dear, come in." She stepped aside to allow him beyond the doorway, and he used a nonverbal levitation spell to bring his trunk and the cage on top of it into the house as well. She had certainly told him, when he had written three or four months ago, that he would be welcome to visit her at any time and for as long as he desired. She had, however, planned on him warning her he was on his way and calling on her at a decent hour. "Let's get you off to bed."
"Thank you, ma'am."
She led the way up the stairs, and Gellert followed, his floating trunk behind him. After reaching the landing, she went down the hall, away from her bedroom, and she opened the last door.
It was a moderately sized room with a bed against one wall, a window that faced the street, a desk in front of that window, and a chest of drawers on the wall opposite the bed. Above the best of drawers was a long shelf. The room was nothing grand, but Bathilda felt lucky that she'd had the sense to prepare it shortly after Gellert had first written to her.
"Here you are," she announced, and she failed to hide a yawn.
"It is wonderful," Gellert replied quietly. "I cannot thank you enough, and I am very sorry to have woken you, ma'am."
"Do get some rest," she said, and she walked down the hall to follow her own advice. There was something about the boy. The thought came to her as she reached her own room. There was something. Some trouble at school, perhaps? That sounded right. She decided not to worry about it and settled back into her bed, darkening her wand and placing it back on the night stand. It was a small misunderstanding, whatever it had been. She was sure of that. Gellert did not seem like the sort of boy to cause trouble. He was handsome, charming, and so polite.
Except for waking her at one in the morning.